


love me dead

by kermiethefrog



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Fingering, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Bottom Sam Winchester, Choking, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Hint of Pee Kink, M/M, Necrophilia fantasy, Possessive Dean Winchester, Rape Fantasy, Serial Killer Fetish, Suicidal Sam Winchester, a little bit of voyeurism, serial killer au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-09-29 00:16:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17192897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kermiethefrog/pseuds/kermiethefrog
Summary: Sam is content with daydreaming—keeping all the fucked-up shit in his head, where it belongs—because his savior big brother can't possibly want to fulfill them. But Dean has killer's hands and a keen eye, and Sam's daydreams start to slip.





	love me dead

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dollylux](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dollylux/gifts).



> sorry for the late posting—lots of medical issues came up this holiday week—but i hope you enjoy, nonetheless.

Heat smothers in the backseat of the Impala, the car squealing rubber on the two-lane highway they’ve been speeding on for the past hour. Sam’s fingers are sticky with sweat and half-melted M&M’s as he thumbs through the newest tabloid stolen from the last gas station. According to the state sign they passed a couple miles back, they’re in West Virginia heading southbound, and every minute of high-afternoon sun burns hotter in the blacktop metal frame. Dean’s window is rolled down all the way; Sam’s eyes keep roaming to where sun-freckled shoulders are on full display, worn cotton sleeves rolled up as high as they can go.

 

There’s a bead of sweat that travels down the length of his brother’s bicep. Sam rests the off-white soles of his shoes against the back of the front bench so he can clench his thighs together without the other Winchesters noticing.

 

_The True Story of America’s Deadliest Killer_ , the article reads when Sam’s focus drops onto it again. It’s the only reason why he slipped it into Dean’s oversized hoodie—Sam keeps the collar over his mouth and nose so he can breathe in the scent of Dean’s yesterday-night sweat.

 

First time he got caught doing it, Dean told him he was a freak.

 

Sam knows. The tip of his tongue flicks against the sweatshirt where it would normally stretch over his brother’s collarbone. His own sweat rolls down his spine and leaves the back of the hoodie soaked. His eyes find the nape of Dean’s neck, where straight fingers push against dew-dropped wetness gathered there. _Freak_ doesn’t quite cover it, Sam thinks, not with the way his mind lingers over big brother tendencies.

 

He closes his thighs tighter and flips a page in the tabloid.

 

Sam has seen Jeffrey Dahmer’s face in more than one magazine. He can’t help the way he’s drawn to it—soft eyes, blonde hair. A killer’s hands, and Sam is all too familiar with the way those look. It makes him wonder if he wouldn’t have fallen prey had they met on the street. Would he have been strangled? Beaten to death? Dismembered and kept like a trophy, a prize?

 

He worries his teeth over his pout and thinks about all the dirtiest secrets he keeps locked up inside of his chest. Drugged and left comatose, raped and ruined—it’s the least he deserves for all the things he wants his big brother to do to him.

 

The car comes to a rattling stop at a gas station, and the frame creaks haunted when Dad steps out to fill up the tank. Dean swivels in his seat and stares at him with a heatwave gaze.

 

“Gonna buy some Coke,” he says. Dean’s voice sounds like it’s been ripped up in all the best ways. Sam feels his thighs getting damp. “Want anythin’?”

 

Sam lets his thighs fall open just an inch, but Dean’s eyes are already on the big-titted drugstore-dyed blonde running cashier in the air-conditioned Gas-N-Sip. He imagines Dean sliding into the backseat and watching as he sucks a six-inch popsicle down his throat; he wonders if that’d be enough to keep his brother’s wandering eye.

 

“Just some water,” Sam answers instead, and the frame creaks haunted when Dean leaves, too.

 

—————

 

They settle into their next hunt-of-the-week town a little past midnight, the car glinting moonlight as it rumbles down the street. The motel room smells like clove cigarettes and stale beer, but it's the furthest from the inhabited rooms so it suits John Winchester just fine. Sam passes three doors on the way to grab ice where the occupants are fucking—in one of them, the girl’s near-screaming, sobbing through every hitched moan. He wants to press his ear against the door just to see if it’s from pleasure or pain, but nerves get the better of him and he scampers down the hallway with a semi and a bucketful of melting ice.

 

The room doesn’t have air conditioning, so Dad opens all the windows and turns the overhead fan on high. Sam feels prickles run down his spine when he strips down to his underwear and spreads ice across his collarbone and hips to cool down, but when he looks over his shoulder, neither of the older Winchesters are looking.

 

He wears hand-me-down everything, and he can’t help going over that fact with the tips of his fingers running across the waistband of his boxers as he lies back in bed. The couch springs squeak under his father’s weight and Dean starts a steady snore in the twin bed a few feet from his own, so Sam curls his fingers around his dick and wonders if Dean did the same in the days before the pair was given to Sam.

 

Sam thinks about Dean’s bruised knuckles rubbing friction-hot against the cotton front of his underwear and comes silently into his own fist.

 

—————

 

Fifteen is the worst age to be alive.

  
A week turns into two weeks turns into a monthlong promise in the span of four days. Dad’s absence isn’t felt, not with how often Dad leaves and comes back bloodied and newly-broken, except that now Sam only feels one pair of eyes on the back of his neck instead of two. It doesn’t matter much—if Sam knows anything about his father, it’s that he’ll always find his way back.

  
Winchesters are immortal. Sam’s seen enough open gashes to believe it.

  
That means Sam gets enrolled in school. In the heat-somnolent West Virginian school district, school starts a little later than most Sam’s attended, so he hasn’t missed much when he shows up his first day. Most of the households run a bit poor, and his beat-up backpack and tattered shoes don’t garner him a second glance as he chews his lip near-bloody and steps into first period.

  
Sam has always been better at stealth than either of the elder Winchesters. Becoming an invisible boy runs instinctual, now; it’s easier than being bullied, or worse, popular.

  
On his third day at Stonewall Jackson High, Sam finds out football practices are open to the public.

  
There are four hours between when the last bell rings and when Dean brings take-out from his job bussing tables at the local mom-n-pop diner, jean pockets lined with tips. There are a dozen and a half things that Sam has learned he can fill the time with when he goes brotherless, but there aren’t nearly as many things that Sam likes more than watching boys beat each other senseless.

  
The sun’s scorching his skin pink as he sits on a middle bleacher bench, off towards the side so he can make an easy escape, just in case. First school of freshman year found him flat on his ass with a cleat pressed against his stomach—Sam fucking hates Texan boys—and he’s not dumb enough to forego precautions. He balances a notebook on his lap so he can work on chemistry homework, but most of his attention is on the throbbing dick between his thighs and the sweat-dripped figures of the varsity football team.

  
It feels crude to call it a game, but Sam likes wondering who would put up the most fight under forceful hands. He feels weightless—a calm so lofty it barely breaches the surface of his paperthin skin—as he puts aside the boys that would go still and silent the quickest. Four, five, six of them—legal or nearly so, practically men—would flail their arms, fingernails biting into shoulders as they fought and struggled to hold onto their last breath, their faces bloating ugly and cold-blue.  

  
Death isn’t always pretty and poetic, but maybe the inconsistencies are what Sam likes the most. It’s individual, and that sings to something special in Sam’s soul.

 

—————

 

Sam counts the days until they leave through soiled pairs of underwear and ripped notebook pages full of filth and discarded at on-the-walk-home trash cans. His brother counts in barely-legal pussy.

  
It’s a Friday, and they’re close enough to the school that Sam can hear the roar of a crowd every so often; inside the room, a girl moans high-pitched. He wipes his forehead with the backs of scar-marked wrists and drags them dry on the thighs of his jeans. It’s only eight p.m. and it’s still hot enough that Sam contemplates settling into the ice machine at the opposite end of the hallway.

  
It makes him think about blue-faced boys again, and he crosses his legs and leans against the wall just to bite down arousal. It doesn’t work—when he hears Dean’s punctuated groans through the cement-brick siding, Sam knows no amount of trying is going to keep him from pressing the heel of his palm into the teenage hard-on tenting his jeans.

 

Sam doesn’t hate her, not really. How can he hate someone who wants the same thing he does? He understands her—is envious, especially when the bed creaks hard and the rhythmic thump of the frame echoes out against the wall—he wants, more than anything, to be the warm, wet hole that Dean stabs into, over and over again.

 

He closes his eyes and presses the threadbare curve of his thumb and forefinger into his throat and comes messy in his underwear at the same time Dean grunts out obscenities a wall beyond.

 

When he’s finally let into the room, Sam’s shame runs sheepish in the downwards slope of his shoulders. His nose wrinkles at the heady scent of sex—so strong Sam can picture being buried facedown in pussy, second-hand sloppy—but if Dean notices, he doesn’t bother to apologize.

  
“My boyfriend’s playing in the game tonight,” Dean’s date says, spaghetti-straps slipped up and skirt set to proper. She leans into Dean and Dean doesn’t pull away, so Sam averts his eyes and chews the corner of his thumbnail. “Can you give me a lift?”

 

“Sure,” Dean responds. Pinprick holes bore into the back of Sam’s neck when he moves to the bathroom, but the front door closes before he has time to look over his shoulder to see what expression Dean held on his face.

 

Sam pictures Dean driving the girl to the edge of the woods north of the town. He pictures Dean leading her out deep off the beaten path, her pretty face twisted ugly with sobs and snot. He pictures Dean strangling the life out of her, or shooting through the back of her head, or bashing her face in—maybe he’ll make some new holes to fuck once she’s gone glassy-eyed.

 

Dean’s a savior-type. An occupational killer—Sam knows when a fantasy is just a fantasy. Dean doesn’t kill anything that isn’t a monster.

 

Still, the idea of his big brother using up his worm-rotted corpse while he floats away into absolutely nothing sounds about as good as it can get.

 

—————

 

“That feel good, Sammy?”

 

“It’s Sam,” he answers, brow creased right at the center above where his bangs cut off; he blinks heavy and feels the tickle of them against his lashes.

 

There’s a finger in his ass and cloth interior against the length of his spine; Sam’s never realized how much he misses leather until he’s cheek-pressed next to a stain in the backseat of a 1996 Ford Mustang. He’s bare-shaven clean from his pelvic bone to his spit-slicked hole—two hours in the three-by-three feet shower stall with Dean making lewd comments the second he stepped out doesn’t seem worth it, now.

 

“You like this, baby?”

 

Jeremy is part of the 99th percentile that amasses every small town that Sam’s visited across the forty-eight contiguous states. He’s number twelve on the varsity football team and weighs twice what Sam does, all muscle mass and height; Sam didn’t even have to search him out on his own. Repressed homosexuality is an overplayed trope, but Sam had seen Jeremy snap an opposing player’s wrist three nights ago, so he’s not going to look a gift horse in the mouth when it feels him up in the boy’s locker room.

 

“Mmm, feels really good,” Sam says, arching his back and getting a horndog-pant in response.

 

He’s good at lying.

 

It doesn’t feel bad. Every once in a while, Jeremy skirts the edge of his prostate, and Sam’s eyelids flutter with promise. It’s just boring—Sam still tastes post-practice come coating the back of his tongue, and maybe Jeremy felt bad for having a quick-draw ejaculation. Being fingered like trailer trash girlfriend after hours behind the school seems like a pretty shit way to make up for that, even for Sam.

 

Not that he was going to reject the offer.

 

Sam takes in a deep breath and stares up at beige car interior, trying to summon heat to the pit of his stomach. The finger inside him squirms—like maggots in carrion, like decaying from the inside—and Sam thinks about Dean’s killer smile and killer’s hands. If Jeremy killed him here, would his big brother avenge him? Carve out baby blues and cut out Jeremy’s tongue?

 

Would Dean want to fuck him just to be close one last time?

 

“Fuck,” Jeremy says, and Sam’s only now aware that he’s started moaning, “you sound like you love this shit.”

 

Dean wouldn’t want anyone else to kill him, Sam decides—Dean would want to do it himself. He pictures Dean’s thick fingers wrapped around his throat, cock buried in him—stabbing in and out, teeth drawing blood, hands leaving ugly bruises. He thinks about clawing at Dean’s forearms and pushing against grown man shoulders and shoving and kicking and crying; he thinks about Dean holding him down and taking it even when he screams and sobs. He thinks about Dean holding him down and taking it even when he stops.

 

“Choke me—” and Sam’s fingers find Jeremy’s wrist, dragging the hand to his throat just to feel the press of it against his arteries.

 

For every unapologetic injury the senior has inflicted, he treats Sam like he’s made out of glass. The hold around his throat is hesitant, fearful—Sam’s been choked by creatures bigger than high school quarterbacks, creatures that intended to kill, and nothing except big brother wrestling spars really compares.

 

If Sam could get Dean to fuck him the same way he weeps by midnight hospital beds, Sam would smash his head into the window of Jeremy’s Mustang in a heartbeat.

  
He thinks about Dean kissing death-frost from his lips and comes sloppy over the tattered edge of a hand-me-down Black Flag shirt with a sugarsweet moan, and Jeremy smiles smug enough for Sam to envision what he’d look like with Dean’s favorite knife pressed underneath his chin.

 

—————

 

Dad calls Dean up on a Wednesday during second period, and Sam’s in the passenger seat of the Impala driving down the fast lane towards Marquette by lunchtime.

 

He’d put up more of a fuss, except Dean’s too white-knuckle focused on the road and Dad’s not around to hear him complain. Besides, Jeremy’s missed school every day since their backseat romance—Sam stares out the window at cornfields and muses about how fragile masculinity is in the right hands.

 

(Dean’s hands engulf his own now, but Sam’s grown two inches since summer. He wonders how much more of a struggle he’ll be able to put up once their eyelines align.)

 

They pull into a stop around midnight, just to restock. Dad’s got a cabin outside the city, nestled deep in Michigan woods, which means granola bars and gas station condensed soup cans and 24-case bottled water and beer in equal amounts. Sam waits inside the car while Dean buys the alcohol, but the niggling need to piss overtakes his always-conscious desire to keep his brother in his sight.

 

There’s a Dean in another world somewhere that barks at him not to leave the car, but the one in his grins at a group of coeds roadtripping as they tip in through the gas station doors. Sam pushes out the Impala and heads to the restrooms.

 

Splash of water on his face post-piss helps cool him down. It’s colder here by thirty degrees than it was in Elkins, West Virginia, but even in a ratty t-shirt and jeans torn at the knees Sam feels like he’s burning up. He wonders if Jeremy didn’t get hit with a bug and passed it on; his mouth still feels mealy from all the spit they shared. He washes it out too, just for good measure.

 

The bathroom’s empty so Sam settles in to look at himself in the mirror. Zits dot his jaw and his lower lip has been bitten to shit, peeling painfully enough that blood dots his pout when he smiles too wide. He has eye bags, dark circles because half his dreams are about his big brother’s hands and the other half are nightmares, though both usually end up with morning wood. Fingernails are grimy, even as hard as Sam tries to keep them clean during the school week, and he has bruises that rest underneath his skin by old scars.

 

He’s not pretty, not in the dollhouse kind of way that would make his filthy teenaged thoughts an aesthetic. Boys like him are a dime a dozen—slit wrists, long hair, flannel over band shirts, writing in journals about dark fantasies. Sam’s never gotten split open by demon dick, but getting shoved onto midnight asphalt and getting hard over fangs pressed against his neck comes pretty close.

 

The bathroom door swings open.

 

Sam washes his hands, shakes water droplets off into the sink. He spares a glance at the man who enters—over six foot, the type of guy who’d know the name John Winchester and hang around shitty dives waiting for something to shoot—before he turns modestly away.

 

Second glance as he’s making his exit gives him a half-shot of the biggest dick Sam’s ever seen.

 

Staring has never been a habit of his, not like it is with his big brother, but he can’t help the way he double-takes, jaw dropping open. He only stutters for half a second, but the absence of the squeal of his rubber soles draws the man’s attention up to Sam’s flushed cheeks.

 

Boys like him get killed in situations like this.

 

“Like what you see, little boy?” the man says, and all the blood in Sam’s body goes straight to fifteen-year-old dick.

 

Fingers curl into the bottom of his shirt, shoulders raise tight—heat spikes through Sam so quick he feels like he’s gonna hurl. There’s still piss on the man’s soft cock when he turns to reveal himself completely; Sam watches gleaming droplets splatter onto grimy truck stop floor. He wonders where it’d rank on his list of acquired sins if he kneeled onto the ground and lapped it up.

 

He’s still deep in daydreaming when his back hits the tiled wall, spreading cold across his shoulder blades. Sam’s brain is still on the slow track to catching up, arousal so thick in his chest he can barely breathe—there’s a hand on his wrist before his fingers wrap around soda can dick, and it takes Sam a few seconds before he realizes the hand is urging him to move.

 

Fear hits him all at once. His dick chubs up so hard that he squeezes his thighs together just to edge off the pain, and thick fingers grip underneath his armpit to keep him standing upright. Amidst the stale coffee breath huffing against his forehead, Sam can hear obscenities: _you wanna get split wide on this dick huh sweetheart ever seen a grown man’s cock before boy you better not scream ‘n take it like a good bitch—_

 

The bathroom door must swing open, even if Sam doesn’t hear it over hitched breath heaving, because Dean has four knuckles splitting Sam’s vision as it cuts into the side of the man’s head.

 

It happens fast. The man’s dick flops comical by the time Dean lays him flat on his ass, and Sam takes in a few breaths as he watches his big brother beat the shit out of the guy. First comes heavy thuds, then the crunch of solid bone—Sam wonders if the man would be pissing himself if he hadn’t already emptied his bladder.

 

He’s still and silent when Dean drags the man blubbering through blood and sinew over to the bathroom stall. Sam doesn’t see it, but he knows what’s happening: the dirty, obscene squelch of brain matter against porcelain slots its way into his soul where he’ll be able to pull it to the forefront of his memory.  
  
When Dean reemerges, he looks feral.

  
It’s an inevitability, Sam thinks, his heart beating rabbit-quick in his throat as he watches the blood swirl down the grimy bathroom sink from Dean’s battered knuckles—it’s an inevitability that his hero-worship would blow out into a gut-punching obsession. Dean’s breathing is shaky and unsteady but he’s looking at Sam like he’s the one trembling; it takes a second for Sam to realize that he is.

  
Dean’s hands are still wet when they hold his jaw in place, fingers desperate where they grip into his scalp. With a tug, Sam falls forward, and his brother’s lips are smashed against his own—it lasts all of two seconds, but it leaves Sam breathless and aching.

 

There’s something rabid-wild in Dean’s eyes when he pulls away. Fingers tighten in Sam’s hair hard enough to hurt, but Sam can do nothing but stare back, spit-slicked lower lip popped open.

 

“Don’t you ever fuckin’ scare me like that again,” Dean rasps out. It sounds like someone took a carving knife to the inside of his throat. “You let someone touch you like that again, I’ll kill you both.”

 

Sam wants the sound jammed inside of him so deep that he’ll be able to feel it in his guts.

 

—————

 

Dean’s too pissed off or tired the rest of the drive, so Sam silently passes the time with his knees pulled up to his chest as he watches the scenery skitter by at twenty miles per hour over the speed limit. They make it to the cabin a little after three a.m., and Dad’s only half-awake on the couch when they walk in, bags in tow.

 

Sam sleeps alone on a dusty, moth-eaten mattress, ears pricked until dawn for the sound of his big brother’s footsteps, but by the time he wakes past noon, Dean and Dad are out.

 

Four days pass, Sam wakes up every night with a hardon and Dean’s bloody hands fading from his sleep-addled haze, and they don’t talk about it.

 

—————

 

Everything in Sam’s life revolves around Dean—his daydreams most of all, and most of Sam’s time is occupied by daydreams.

 

Knowing—having a fantasy collide with reality, being able to conjure up the sensation of Dean’s lips against his own, being able to remember the taste of blood in the air and the look in his brother’s eyes when he killed—has disrupted the tenuously fabricated grip Sam has on his daydreams.

 

He tells himself: _it doesn’t mean anything_ . He tells himself: _Dean walked in, saw a man about to rape me, and rushed in to save me_ . He tells himself: _Dean’s not like me_.

 

He picks his hangnails bloody and worries his nail beds to the flesh telling himself over and over.

 

But Sam, above all things, relies on certainty before making moves. Dean refuses to talk to him, so Sam goes to town.

 

—————

 

It’s nearly dark by the time Dean finds him nestled against the trunk of a pine tree, lips kissed red and throat mottled with pink bruises. Micah—homeschooled, parents away on business, reads gothic erotica behind dust jackets of Stephen King novels—doesn’t know what hits him between the second and third rib until he’s choking on blood and weakly grasping at Sam’s forearms.

 

Sam can barely see Dean’s face in the shadowed evening light, but he’s known it’s his brother for the past half a mile. The cut is so clean that the blood blooms cinematically against the cream color of middle-upper class wool coat; Sam thinks of hunting deer with the way Micah staggers backwards and falls to his knees. The death gurgles are melodic—the scene is something out of Sam’s best dreams, picturesque against the birch-and-pine tree landscape of autumnal Michigan.

 

Dean’s blade is still warm with rich blood when he holds it against Sam’s jumping pulse.

 

“Do you think this is a fuckin’ game?” big brother demands, and Sam stares back, wide-eyed and wanting. “Are you trying to rile me up, huh? Piss me off? I told you the next time—first that football kid, next the fucker in the truck stop—what are you doing, huh, Sam? What the fuck are you trying to do?”

 

Sam presses forward for a kiss and Dean nicks his throat. There’s a grip so tight in his hair that he feels like Dean’s trying to peel back his scalp to see all the fucked up thoughts inside.

 

“You’re making me do this. You—you’re _making_ me hurt people, Sammy, I only get this way because of you.” Dean’s lips are so close to his, and Sam lets out a wanton whine. “Why? Does this shit make you feel good?”

 

Not good. Euphoric. But Sam doesn’t find the word forming in his throat in time before Dean kisses him.

 

—————

 

Dean comes home well after midnight. Dad’s out at the bar and didn’t say anything to the spot of blood trickling down Sam’s throat when Sam arrived back at the cabin, so Sam waits pretty and pink-fleshed and bare on Dean’s bed to warm him up when he returns.

 

Sam doesn’t ask about Micah, and Dean doesn’t offer any details.

 

“You’re mine,” Dean says. Sam chokes on big brother dick pounding the back of his throat in his haste to respond. “You’re mine, bitch, say it—”

 

Sam’s cheek is red-slapped and sloppy with spit when Dean hits the hollow of it with the head of his cock. “I’m yours, Dean, yours, yours, yours.”

 

Dean fucks his throat and holds him nose-pressed to pelvic bone until Sam needs to breathe, fingernails biting into big brother thighs, and then holds him a few seconds longer. Sam takes one sharp, wet rasp of air when he’s released before Dean’s hand wraps tight around his throat, and Sam feels his limbs flagging, the life being choked from his body.

 

His eyes roll back and he beams reverent up at his big brother. Dean spits into his gaping mouth and grins back.

 

—————

 

With each stateline crossed, Sam sheds another layer. Winter in South Dakota is killer, but they’re heading to fairer shores—string of disappearances in Palm Springs beckons the attention of John Winchester, and Sam’s not going to argue. His fingertips still run to-the-touch freezing, so he clamps them between his thighs where his half-hard dick radiates an always-present, needy heat.

 

“Got it. Yeah. Thanks. Keep me updated if it sounds like anything,” Dad says into the cell phone receiver before flipping it closed. Dean—dutiful—slips it into the glove box and gives their father a curious look. “Found a few bodies back in Dell Rapids. Bobby just gave me the call.”

 

Dean doesn’t miss a beat, even as Sam’s heart skips one. “What’s he thinking? Something worth looking into?” he asks.

 

Sam can name every man left behind in Dell Rapids, Beloit, Buck Creek. He can recite how they first noticed him, what they looked like being led somewhere private, how their fingers felt crawling against his skin. He could open his mouth now and tell John how Dean killed them, how Dean fucked him after, how it made him feel.

 

He rests his soles on the back of the front bench and listens as Dad says, “Ain’t no signs of it being supernatural.”

 

He closes his thighs together tight as Dad says, “Sometimes people are the real monsters.”

 

There’s eyes boring into the top of his bowed head, so Sam lifts it; he meets Dean’s eyes, heavy, steady. Dean smiles, just a little—lilt of his lips, a little coy—and Sam gifts him one in response. It makes Dean’s expression blow out dreamy, like Sam’s the only thing left in the world to look at.

 

Someone somewhere says: _there’s no greater pleasure than owning a man who would kill for you_ , and Sam thinks: _oh._


End file.
